


Into Darkness Falls a Star

by KayleeArafinwiel



Series: The Tale of Penthronnil [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 08:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13947318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeArafinwiel/pseuds/KayleeArafinwiel
Summary: In the Year 3434 of the Second Age, a great Alliance of Elves and Men assembled in defiance of the Dark Lord's will to conquer all the lands of Middle-earth. The High Elves, the blessed of Valinor who suffered the greatest wrath of Sauron and Morgoth the Enemy, now seek to ensure that his evil is forever banished from the world.





	1. Into Darkness Falls a Star

**Author's Note:**

> I disclaim any text from LOTRO, any LOTRO characters, and of course any characters you recognize from Tolkien's works are not mine.

On the ashen plains of the wastes of Mordor, amongst the company of Ereinion’s Elves, Penthronnil asked herself, yet again, what in Eru’s name one such as she was doing here. “I am but a humble student of lore and music, a message carrier, no warrior! Yet, when I arrived to find so many slain, my king needed every capable fighter to follow him, and if naught else, Melui is that,” she whispered to herself. Only then did she hear her name being called.  
  
“Penthronnil! You seemed as if lost in a trance, and I could not rouse you until this very moment. My dearest friend, do not allow the Enemy to cloud your thoughts with visions of defeat. As Sauron surely knows, the mastery is ours in this battle.  
Alas! A cornered foe is the most deadly -- and there are none more treacherous than the Enemy in this realm. We must put our troubles behind us for the moment and press our advantage.”  
  
Penthronnil gave Harthalin a wry look, regarding her lifelong friend. “Well, I had not thought much on our possible defeat until now,” she replied. “I was asking myself what on Arda I was doing here, but I did not think our warriors might be defeated.”   
  
“Well, the High King has summoned us, Penthronnil,” Harthalin replied briskly. “Let us go.”   
  
“Yes, Mistress. As you say, Mistress,” Penthronnil smirked. “Come, Melui.” She summoned the bear to her side and loped after her. It did not do to keep the High King waiting.  
  
When they reached Ereinion, Penthronnil saw he wasn’t alone. Elrond was with him, and Cirdan, their foster-father; also present were Elendil, King of Men, and his sons Isildur and Anárion. Her lord Glorfindel, once of Gondolin, was likewise there. Penthronnil found herself humming softly, snatches of an old Gondolindhrin tune, as the Lords of Elves and Men debated what to do next.   
  
“Hush, Daughter,” Glorfindel whispered, cutting her off sharply, and Penthronnil winced, falling silent. “My lord, I—”   
  
The blast of a distant horn sounded as a scout raced down the hillside toward them, calling out.  
“High King! Riders approach from beyond the Morannon! It is a meagre assemblage - only nine in number. Might the Enemy seek to parley at last?”  
  
“Sauron does not wield his servants as ambassadors,” Elendil replied skeptically. He traded glances with Gil-galad.   
“Allow them to ride forth unhindered but remain on guard. We shall meet them in the field,” Gil-galad replied.  
In more hushed tones, he added, “At last the bearers of the Nine Rings reveal themselves...The shadow-kings, the Gwetherain... they have returned out of the darkness!”  
  
Penthronnil paled, freezing, but Harthalin shook her shoulder, whispering urgently. “Come on!”   
  
They raced after the others, each burying one hand in Melui’s thick fur to keep themselves upright. The ash-choked plain did not make for comfortable footing, even for an Elf. Penthronnil felt the blood freeze in her veins as they first beheld the black-robed Gwetherain – no wonder these nine had been chosen by the Dark Lord. As the kings spoke with the chief of the Nine, she did her best to block out the words. But at last the Nine fled – it was over.  
  
“Come, Penthronnil,” Ereinion Gil-galad said in ringing tones. “We must speak.”  
  
Me? She wondered at that, for she was the youngest descendant of the House of the Golden Flower, Lindon-born; she did not recall Gondolin which ought to have been her home. She had thought herself below the High King’s notice. Still, she followed him dutifully to the rear garrison upon Dagorlad.  
  
“Penthronnil, before the Nine arrived I sent forth the Spears of Lindon with a garrison of Elves and Men. With Sauron's demands rejected, we can no longer hold hope that the Gwetherain shall stay their hands in this battle.  
'You know the Spears as Thelaron, Megoril, and Dernaith, your friends, and they have stood by my side through many great battles against Sauron and the most terrible of his servants.  
'Ere they departed, they swore to cross the Enemy's trenches and dismantle their siege equipment. It is true enough that catapult-shot has not hit our position in some time, but the wider front has been brought to ruin by those very tools.  
'You must now be my scout and my messenger. Learn what has become of their garrison, and if any of them yet live, deliver to them a message of hope.  
'The Alliance marches upon the Black Gate, and no evil Man or Orc shall stand in the way of our victory over Sauron!”  
  
When she was dismissed, Penthronnil swallowed hard. She curtseyed, as best as her uniform permitted, and began making her way across the Enemy’s lands to find the forward garrison. Thankfully she had Melui to help her track; she was far more likely to get distracted by being reminded of ancient songs of the Battle of Sudden Flame, with such surroundings as they faced. Focus had not come easily to her, much to Lord Glorfindel’s dismay; at least Lord Elrond found her a quick study. If she survived this war…  
  
“I must survive,” she muttered. “We have to survive, Melui. I hope we do.” Melui growled in agreement. They ran around the firepits, avoiding enemies where they could and Melui fighting when she had to. It was not long before a Man garbed in Anárion’s colours led them off the path toward the garrison. Dernaith and Megoril were waiting to greet Penthronnil.  
  
“Penthronnil! Tell us quickly what has happened,” Dernaith said urgently. “Our foes surge from the east.”  
  
“The Gwetherain came to parley with the kings,” Penthronnil replied quietly. “Or rather, to seek for our surrender to Sauron. Our lords would not give it.” She had gathered that much while her mind had wandered, at least.   
  
“The Gwetherain!” Dernaith scowled. “Two of them came through here, and one took Thelaron from us! We must stop them, and rescue Thelaron.”   
  
Megoril held up a quelling hand. “If we shall truly strike at the Black Gate this day, the Alliance must soon come hither. We did as the High King commanded and brought the Enemy's weapons to ruin, but when the Gwetherain appeared, they slew many of our number and divided our forces upon the Dagorlad. The faces by which I once knew the Gwetherain when they first took the Rings have long-faded, but this one I knew by his blade. The Cursed Rider he is called, and he goaded his stead onward over backs of Elf, Man and Orc alike!”  
  
Penthronnil’s shudder did not go unnoticed, but Megoril had more to say.   
  
“Regrettably, we were forced into retreat before we could aid many of them from the field of battle. We now struggle to hold the only path over the great trenches and the Enemy's forces have brought forth more trebuchets and ballistae upon the Dagorlad. Aid the wounded in the field and let us hope the Alliance shall arrive to drive off the Enemy's forces!”  
  
Penthronnil sighed in relief. This, she felt she could do, having some measure of healing knowledge. However, as she and Melui pressed on together, it soon became clear that aid the wounded meant fight off those attacking the wounded, and Penthronnil wished Megoril had been clearer. Still, she did her best, and Melui charged in, knocking enemies aside with strong blows of her paws. With the enemy driven back, Penthronnil did her best to aid their fallen comrades.  
  
“The Rider…” one of them gasped, “ran me down. I cannot…Prince Thranduil! The Rider has him, there in the vale!”   
  
Prince Thranduil! Penthronnil’s eyes widened, for the elf was dressed in Greenwood’s livery, and she did her best to patch him up quickly. Giving him to the custody of two of his less wounded fellows, she and Melui took off at a run. If Thranduil dies—  
  
She didn’t want to think what Lord Glorfindel would say to that. She would have to do the best she could. But the thick webbing that clung to the rocks on the edge of the vale was not encouraging. It slowed her down, only growing thicker, and harder to avoid, as she and Melui crept on.  
  
In the deep of the webbed hollow, she found the Gwatharan, the Cursed Rider, staring down Prince Thranduil from atop his dark steed. Thranduil was on his feet still, trying not to show weakness in the face of such evil. Penthronnil wouldn’t blame him for being afraid – she was terrified. But the Rider was speaking, not attacking, and she crouched down, the better to hide herself for now.  
  
“There is no escape for you! See now the fate of those who defy my Master?” the Cursed Rider was saying.  
  
“The Dark Lord holds no power over me, wraith! Be my fate sealed or not, my arrow shall fly true!” Thranduil snapped back. Penthronnil couldn’t see his face, but she remembered hearing rumours that the Prince had been briefly Sauron’s prisoner. Was this mere bravado, then, or had Thranduil truly got past that?  
  
“Fool! Wills can be broken!” the Cursed Rider snarled. “This blade shall see to that, Thranduil of Greenwood!”  
  
Just then, a hissing, clicking noise sounded from all directions, and even the Cursed Rider’s mount pranced back a few steps uncertainly. Penthronnil reeled in shock. Two score spiders, at least, each as big as a large dog – and one, crawling toward the Rider, that was twice as large as a horse. She whimpered in terror as the spiders rushed Thranduil and the Cursed Rider.   
  
“What is this? The cursed spawn of Ungwetári!” the Rider cried out. “You think to threaten me? Sauron will not forgive Her this time!”  
  
The Cursed Rider galloped away, leaving Thranduil to fight the spiders. Penthronnil, swallowing hard, rushed forward, staff raised, and Melui dashed into the fray beside her.  
  
Chanting the incantations her master had taught her, she called forth fire to repel the giant spider as Thranduil and Melui fought the smaller ones. It was weakening, she thought, but she was tiring faster.   
  
“Hold fast! You do not fight alone!”  
  
Penthronnil nearly dropped to her knees in relief. Lord Glorfindel! And Lord Elrond, too…oh, thank Eru, she thought, as her lord came to fight by her side. Elrond was protecting Thranduil, as was proper, but the giant spider was no match for the Balrog-Slayer, and soon all the spiders were dead.  
  
She was ready to drop from exhaustion, but Elrond came to steady her, speaking a Word of Power to restore her strength. “The prince is fortunate to have survived his father's attack on the Black Gate, but the Gwatharan's words trouble me . The Rider spoke a name in Quenya ere he departed: Ungwetári! The spider-queen!” Elrond shook his head.  
  
“Ungoliant is gone from this realm and shall trouble the world no longer, but Her children remain, preying on anything they can devour and spreading Her darkness through Middle-earth. One among them must now hunger as She did... without a care for the powers of the Dark Lord and without any purpose other than to consume. These are unhappy tidings my friend, even if it seemed fortuitous that the Great Spiders turned upon the Rider. If we do not face this child of Ungoliant in the war, it is certain that the day will come when her hunger shall seek to sate itself beyond the shadows of Mordor.  
'The High King gave me leave to pursue at the urging of the Spears of Lindon, but he has called for your return at once. The Alliance has come to the forward garrison at last. Reunite with then there, Penthronnil, and make ready for our assault on the Black Gate!”  
"What about his Highness?" Penthronnil asked, looking at Thranduil, cradled in the kneeling Glorfindel’s arms.   
  
“We will tend the Prince’s wounds. Go now,” Elrond urged Penthronnil, and she didn’t need telling twice.  
  
When she reached the forward garrison, it was to find the High Kings there. Elendil and Ereinion greeted Penthronnil warmly, and Ereinion took her aside to speak with her again.   
  
“I am glad to see you again, Penthronnil. Dernaith and Megoril have told me of Thelaron's capture, and I am troubled by such grim tidings. The Dark Lord would not have soon forgotten the wounds he suffered at our hands, and I fear what form his vengeance might take. Even now as I wish to abandon my duty, I cannot turn my eyes from the Black Gate at such a crucial hour. Thus, I give you this mission of dire importance. You must find Thelaron, and you must save him from the Gwetherain.  
As for the Alliance, one of Durin's Folk has devised a cunning plan to draw the attention of the Dark Lord's forces and allow for a swift strike against the Black Gate. In truth, I know not if this plan shall bear fruit, but we must conquer the Gate if Sauron is to be defeated. I would ask that you speak to Slégar the Crafty. He is an honorable enough dwarf, despite his chosen title. Once you have done as he asks, pursue the Gwatharan and rescue Thelaron! Our paths are now divided, my friend, but let us hope each of them lead to victory. May the light of the Valar shine upon us!”  
  
“We can but hope, your Majesty,” Penthronnil whispered, too tired to argue. Whatever this Dwarf had to say, she could hope it wouldn’t bring any more giant spiders down upon her.  
  
She went to speak to Slégar. “Greetings, Master Dwarf.”  
  
“I am Slégar, at your service, Penthronnil – or perhaps you are at mine! Have you considered how the Enemy's trenches never seem to stop burning? Well I have.” He gestured to the pile of barrels stacked behind him.  
  
“The barrels are filled with a crude, black powder that explodes when exposed to flame. Not only that, but it burns for hours afterward. Aye, if it were more useful in stone-work, I think Durin himself would have us steal some away! The Dark Lord's Black Riders... the damned Ringwraiths as the Men call them, they're wily enough, but these goblins are none too bright. They've left the barrels right next to their own ballistae and catapults! Why don't you set some of them off? That ought to put an end to their siege and draw their attention long enough for the Alliance to reach the Black Gate. Just make sure you don't stick around once you light them!”  
  
Penthronnil listened to the Dwarf’s plan. It was a good one, she had to admit. A crafty one, as his epithet suggested. But the parting shot was too much. “I’m not a fool, Master Dwarf,” she huffed. She would have wiped the smirk off his bearded face if Melui hadn’t bowled him over with a paw and done it for her.  
  
Before Slégar could recover himself, Penthronnil and Melui headed off on their errand. Small groups of goblins – pairs or in threes – dotted the landscape, and Penthronnil did her best not to engage unless they were right next to a barrel. She and Melui would slay the barrel-guardians, then she backed up some distance and shot a jet of fire onto each barrel. One, two, three, four, five, six…there, that seemed to be enough for now – and as they destroyed the sixth, the resulting fireball lit up a trail of glowing hoofprints in the ash-thick night.  
  
The Cursed Rider? Penthronnil thought. “What do you think, Melui?” she asked. The bear sniffed the tracks, growling and darting down the trail. Penthronnil hurried to catch up, and they followed the trail north, east, west and south, as it turned odd corners, up hill and down dale – the prevailing direction was east, however, she thought, and they reached the eastern trenches of Dagorlad well before the trail’s ending.  
  
At the trench, she found Harthalin again. “Harthalin! I did not know you were here!”  
  
“Penthronnil, my friend! I am gladdened by this reunion, but there is little else to celebrate...  
The High King sent me and my company eastward to learn what had become of the Elves of Lorien, but alas, only Prince Amroth remains upon the field. His father and the others were routed to the north, but where they have gone, we cannot follow. The Prince is injured, but he will heal in time. I must ask, though... why have you come?”  
  
“The High King sent me,” Penthronnil exhaled slowly, shuddering at the thought of both young Elf-princes sorely wounded. “And Thelaron, the Spear of Lindon, has been taken by the Gwatharan.”  
  
Harthalin frowned. “Your talk troubles me... for Amroth spoke of a terrible figure that passed with an Elf slung across his steed. Time may grow short for Thelaron, my friend. I think it is time we learned more of what the Prince saw...”  
  
She led Penthronnil and Melui to where the Prince lay, tended by Harthalin’s companions. Hithgol was holding Amroth’s head up as he sipped at a healing potion and some broth.   
  
“Prince Amroth... can you tell my companion about the Rider you saw?” Harthalin inquired, keeping her voice low and gentle.   
“As much as I do not wish to recall him, I can.” Amroth struggled to sit up, and Halthol supported him. “From what you have told me, he was one of the Nine Gwetherain -- garbed in black and seated atop a great steed. I know not if he still lived, but an Elf was slung limply across the Gwatharan's steed. He lifted aloft a great mace, and with a crack of thunder, his Master's statue was toppled.  
  
It was then he looked upon me, and what remained beneath his hood sniffed madly at the air. There was a sorcery in his gaze, I tell you, for his eyes were as flames in a void! Perhaps he thought me slain, for he then rode on into the hills...” Amroth sputtered and coughed as Hithgol nearly dropped him.   
  
“No! It cannot be!” Hithgol exclaimed.  
  
“It can be no other, Hithgol. The Witch-king has taken Thelaron,” Harthalin replied. “We must go after him, Penthronnil.”   
  
Melui growled agreement, pushing her muzzle under the Prince’s hand. He stroked her nose absently, looking in concern at the two ellith.   
  
“Be wary! The Men of the East who slew my father’s warriors have an encampment in the hills, and it is there he must have gone!”  
“Thank you, Prince Amroth. If the Men of the East hold the hillside, then we must go by secret steps...” Harthalin added quietly to Penthronnil, as the two of them crept away, Melui following the tracks of the Rider. Suddenly, they stopped and turned aside from the trail.  
  
As they paused to take a breath, Harthalin whispered her tale to Penthronnil.  
  
“When my company came to Prince Amroth's aid, I heard a great cry and a thunder like flapping wings from above. It sounded like some terrible flying creature as great in size as the Eagles. I could not spy it through the smoke, but I am certain it lurked beyond my sight. I do not know if this creature is a servant of Sauron's, but its presence makes me fear all the more for Thelaron.  
  
'If the Witch-king has taken him to the overlook, we must pass through the Easterling encampment ahead. The men of the East have grown arrogant behind Sauron's might and they have left a small passage in their encampment open to the woodlands.  
  
'Follow me, and we shall sneak in and avoid the dangers of approaching their gate upon the road.”   
  
Harthalin led Penthronnil and Melui around the Easterling encampment, to the far edge. "We must move quietly; it is not far now," she murmured. A set of steps, carved of stone and wood, wound up the side of the hill, and they ascended the spiral stair as quietly as possible.   
  
  
They spotted the sentry, and Penthronnil froze, but Harthalin shook her head. "Hold here, Penthronnil. Their sentry seems on the edge of sleep."   
  
Obediently, Penthronnil remained silent and still as Harthalin crept forward. With a shout, she fell upon the man, sword flashing out. "Face your doom, Men of the East!" The sentry was dead before he hit the ground, but his fellows came running, and battle was joined.  
  
Melui fought too, helping Penthronnil and Harthalin in bringing the score or so Easterlings down to a more manageable six.   
  
“Do not fear for me, Penthronnil! Go now, up the stairs to the overlook! You must save Thelaron!” Harthalin commanded, in a tone Penthronnil dared not disobey. She fled up the stair, Melui racing after.   
  
They met with no opposition on the stair, which Penthronnil thought either fortuitous, or ominous. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. “What do you think, Melui?” she whispered, closing her eyes and breathing in and out painfully.   
  
Melui growled. Familiar hoofprints glowed nearby, and they followed the tracks to the Gwatharan’s horse, tied nearby. It reared up, kicking out at them, and they backed away hurriedly. Penthronnil turned. They had reached the broad, flat top of the hill, and in the very centre of the empty camp was a stone platform shrouded in dark mist, a short flight of stone steps leading up to it.  
  
The young elleth and her bear mounted the steps together, and soon the figure of the chief Gwatharan, the Witch-king, came into view. He stared at them with fiery eyes, laughing cruelly.   
  
“You come too late, servant of Gil-galad! Your fear has left you defenceless, and the Elf has been borne away by the winged beasts of my Master!”  
  
Penthronnil recoiled in shock. “No!”   
  
“The Elf-king will never see him again, for he shall suffer evermore in the dungeons of Barad-dûr! But you, Penthronnil...you shall be changed, and you will return to Gil-galad as his greatest foe! Such is the will of Sauron!”  
  
Penthronnil was frozen with terror, too afraid to coax a fireball from her staff. Melui growled threateningly, but a negligent gesture from the Witch-king threw a bolt of lightning at her, sending Melui flying back over the hilltop. As the Witch-king approached, Penthronnil wept in shock and terror, staff dropping from her hand.  
  
The Witch-king flashed out a dark blade, glinting with a cold blue light. “Suffer now, and rise anew into the realm of the Unseen!”  
  
All Penthronnil knew then was pain, and darkness, as the blade was plunged home.  
  
She had failed.


	2. Preparations for the Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of Penthronnil was not quite ended…

_“Man sad…man sad Thelaron?”_

 

A nearby voice shrieked. “My lord! Penthronnil awakens!”

 

 _Harthalin?_ Penthronnil tried to move, but she felt a cool hand stroking her brow.

 

“Rest easy, dear one. You are safe from harm in Imladris.” Penthronnil thought she recognised Lord Elrond’s warm, reassuring voice. But was it true, or just another trick of the Enemy? Imladris! But…the war… _Thelaron!_

 

“Thelaron…” Harthalin’s voice sounded pained.   
  
“We will not speak of that just yet.” Elrond’s words, though gentle, were clearly a command, and Harthalin murmured an apology. “Penthronnil’s wound is healed, but she is sorely in need of rest. Sleep, child, and when you wake next we will speak.”

 

When Penthronnil opened her eyes again, she was unsure just how much time had passed. Her mind was clear, she felt unafraid, and she sat up slowly, acclimating herself to her surroundings. The small room in which her bed lay looked out into a larger chamber. It was large enough to be called a hall, round, and airy – the scent of clean air, trees, flowers, and waterfalls blew in through the open windows. Other beds lay in rooms beyond hers, screened off by gauzy curtains. In between the beds were shelves of books, stores of herbs, and alcoves with cushioned seats.   
  
Filled with the desire to explore, rather than just watch, Penthronnil slowly raised herself from the bed. Her legs felt strange underneath her, but they held, and she drew a robe around her before going out into the middle of the hall. Slowly, she made her way around until she found Lord Elrond.

 

“It brings me great joy to see you on your feet once more, Penthronnil,” he greeted her.   
  
“I too am glad, lord. But please, tell me what happened,” Penthronnil replied, her voice hoarse from disuse. He handed her a goblet of water, in which he had mixed a few healing herbs, and she sipped obediently. Leading her to a cushioned bench, he began the tale.

 

“After you fell, we attempted to heal you upon the battle plain, but the Witch-king of Angmar had dealt you a grievous injury -- one unlike any dealt to our peoples before by the hands of the Dark Lord. The decision was made to return you to Imladris, far from the lands of the Enemy. You suffered for years in restless agony as my healers worked to free you of the evils that lingered in your wound. When the war was ended, I returned to aid them and learned much of healing the foul wounds of Morgul-steel. When at last you could rest, you did so for many long years. Despite my efforts, your strength has diminished greatly. It may take a great time, but I believe you shall again know the power that lies within you.”  
  
“I was merely a student, lord, no great scholar,” Penthronnil countered.

 

Elrond shook his head and smiled sadly. “As for the task given you by Gil-galad, do not consider it a failure, Penthronnil. None could have foreseen the Enemy's malice in sending his Nazgûl to seize Thelaron. Tragically, he was never found -- even after Barad-dûr itself was brought to ruin. It wounded Gil-galad greatly to lose both of you in the War, and it is said that his light was dimmed through all the battles that followed. Even so, he did not falter before the Enemy! No, you did not fail in vain, my friend. Our victory on the battle plain that day bore fruit, indeed. Sauron resisted our assaults for seven years in the Dark Tower, but in the end, he was cast down by Gil-galad and Elendil. Elendil's son, Isildur, cut the Ring from Sauron's finger, destroying the Dark Lord and banishing him from this realm.”

 

“Destroyed?” Penthronnil breathed. “How…wait, banished? Is he not dead, my lord?”  
  
“Alas, there is more to be said on these matters,” Elrond said softly. “Walk with me, Penthronnil.” He gave her his arm, and she leaned on the Peredhel only a little as they circled round Tham Send, the Hall of Rest. “You remember the War as if it were yesterday, do you not?”  
  
“Yes, lord, I do,” Penthronnil replied, looking warily at Elrond. What was he not telling her?  
  
“You are one of the few that remain in this realm that can recall it as I do. I come to Tham Send often, reflecting on the sacrifices which were made,” Elrond replied.

 

“Sacrifices,” Penthronnil echoed.

 

“Indeed, Gil-galad and Elendil defeated the Dark Lord, but at the cost of their own lives.” Elrond looked gravely at Penthronnil and forestalled her from going to her knees. “Nay, I am not your king, child. Think not so of me. The realms of Elves and Men have been forever changed since the world passed into the Third Age.”

 

“The…Third Age,” Penthronnil breathed, wishing she could do something more intelligent than parrot the words of her High King – will he or nill he – back to him. Elrond regarded her for a long moment, as though reading her thoughts. Perhaps that was precisely what he was doing.

 

“So it has been for many years. I do not wish to alarm you,” Elrond said, as they resumed their place on the bench, “but the year is now the three thousand and eighteenth of the Third Age.” Penthronnil stifled a shocked cry. “Still,” Elrond continued, “even though much time has passed, Imladris remains as you remember it. You have borne many burdens in your time, dear one, and I give you leave to depart for the Havens if you wish it.”

 

The Havens? Sail West to Valinor, from whence her lord Glorfindel had returned? She pushed the thought aside. “I shall have to consider it, lord. Were…were any others…” She looked around the Hall.

 

“Hithgol lies also in Tham Send, healing of grievous wounds,” Elrond said quietly. “He was an herbalist and warrior in King Amroth’s company.”   


Penthronnil remembered Amroth as a Prince, and grief stirred her again. War changed many things. “I believe I remember him,” she said quietly.

 

“Perhaps he, too, will wake today. If you wish, you may see him,” Elrond said, pointing out the alcove where Hithgol lay in restless slumber. Penthronnil made her way to Hithgol’s side, stroking his brow gently, and began to sing softly to him, the words appearing in her mind.

 

 _“_ The song of Fingon Elves yet sing,

captain of armies, Gnomish king,

who fell at last in flame of swords

with his white banners and his lords…”

 

Though the song was not exactly conducive to healing, or so Penthronnil might have thought, Hithgol’s slumber seemed to ease.

 

“He is not ready to wake just yet,” Elrond said, and Penthronnil jumped a little, turning. “Perhaps another month, or so.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Penthronnil replied. She looked at Hithgol, leaned forward and pressed a kiss of benediction to the ellon’s brow. “Heal swiftly,” she whispered. “I am sure Amroth has missed you.”

At Elrond’s urging, she returned to her alcove. There were a pair of trunks beside the bed, the nearer of which was battered and travel-worn; she opened it first. It contained her clothing from the War; a pair of quilted leggings, cloth shoes with leather soles, and her loremaster’s robe, all tattered and stained with ash; a wooden staff, its bejewelled tip cracked, and mingled with the ashes, tufts of bear fur. Penthronnil picked up a tuft of brown fur and clasped it in her hand, weeping.

_Melui…_

“I will leave you to your grief, child,” Elrond said compassionately, “but my sons will come to you, and when you are ready, you may open the other trunk.”

Penthronnil nodded mutely, tears still coursing down her cheeks. When she had finished crying for the moment, she looked up to find twin ellyn – no, Peredhil – watching her with compassion. They could only be Elrond’s sons, she thought, for the resemblance was obvious.

“Greetings, Lady Penthronnil,” the nearer said, stepping forward and giving her a bow. “I am Elrohir, and this is my brother Elladan. Our father has given his leave for you to depart in our company, for we have an errand to Edhelion, near the Havens.”  
  
Elladan bowed in his turn. “I must say, I am excited to learn more of the battles of Ages past from you. Father told us not to bother you with so many questions, but this is likely our last chance. Is it not? I am certain Father has told you all about your journey ahead, but do not worry -- the matter of his dream need not trouble you! Besides, the journey to Mithlond shall give us enough time to speak on other matters. I would think the events of the past three thousand years would be of some interest to you. My brother and I stand ready to set out for the Ered Luin. If you are prepared, we shall depart at once!”

“If I am prepared,” Penthronnil murmured. Pushing aside the old trunk, full of death, horror, and memories, she drew the new one near. The sons of Elrond helped her to open it.

Within, she found a tunic and waistcoat, bracers, trousers, boots, two cloaks – one with a hood, and one without, as well as leather shoulder guards and a helmet. A new loremaster’s staff resided within as well, made of polished wood that gleamed in the light. It was much finer than her previous one, and as the sons of Elrond turned their backs graciously, she made haste to dress. The hooded cloak she tucked into a pack she discovered at the bottom of the trunk. Along with it she found a sapphire ring, marking her as under the protection of Lord Elrond, and –

“Nirya?” she breathed, holding up the mithril ring with its turquoise stone. “But – my Master left it to me, and when I departed to find Gil-galad – “

“You left Nirya here, in the keeping of Imladris,” Elladan finished. “It is time it was returned to you. Nirya is but a lesser ring, a crafting of Celebrimbor’s before ever the Gwaith-i-Mirdain had heard of Annatar, but it may yet bring you hope.”

Penthronnil slipped Nirya on her finger and felt relief as the ring’s power warmed her.  Other items were in the pack she lifted onto her back – food stores, medicines, dyes, and a gift Elrond had left for her that she did not yet feel ready to open. When all was prepared, she nodded to the twins, who led her from the Hall of Rest, out through Imladris, and down to the stables. The twins’ horses had been made ready, and she was settled on a horse tethered between theirs, much to her chagrin.

“You have not ridden in an Age of the world, child,” Elrond said as he came to bid her a final farewell. “Do not take it as a slight. My sons and their companions will see you safely to the Ered Luin. Many have departed this realm for the Uttermost West by the ships of Círdan, our friend of old. He is now called the Shipwright by those who know his works, and he dwells in Mithlond with the few that still remain in his service as skilled crafters. Much of the wood used by Círdan is ferried to Mithlond by way of the port of Celondim along the Ered Luin, and it is there you must journey to reach the Havens, if such is your choice.”

“And if it is not, lord?” Penthronnil replied.

“I wish you to be fully informed before you choose. Concerning such matters, I have prepared for you a tome of writings on the history of the Third Age thus far. You are free to read them at your leisure, for it will be a long journey,” Elrond replied. He handed the book up to her, and Penthronnil accepted it gratefully. She would not read on horseback, of course, but it would occupy her when they needed to stop.

“One more thing, Penthronnil,” Elrond added. “You have the staff you were given?”  
  
It rested across her back, as though it were a sword. She drew it out of its harness.

“Speak the incantation, _Tolo brôg,”_ Elrond requested. Penthronnil paled, but did so. There was a wash of blue light from the tip of her staff – and a young bear came trotting out of the nearby trees. It – no, she – looked so like Melui. Penthronnil looked at Elrond, her eyes wet with tears. “My lord…”

“I know,” Elrond murmured. “But you will need her.”

“Thank you,” Penthronnil said softly.

Elrond nodded. “In time your strength will return, my dear, and the power of your ring shall rise with it. I hope my writings prove to be of use to you as well. I recount much of the time that passed while your wound healed, but even I cannot be aware of all that has transpired since the end of the Second Age. As for your journey, my sons shall see you to Celondim in the course of their own travels. Elladan and Elrohir are to follow an expedition to the ruins of Edhelion led by the Elf Dorollas on my behalf. Speak not of this to any outside their company, but I had a strange premonition... amidst a field of blurred visions, a voice arose saying:

'Blood-red footsteps

Upon snow-coloured black.

Where the Dour King walks

To take back his throne

and finish what was begun.'

'It is a troubling riddle, and one that I do not think soon solved. Have you any thoughts on its meaning?”   
  
Penthronnil squirmed slightly on the back of her horse, uncomfortable with the questioning, but then Dorollas and the others came to join them.

“Ah! it is just as well; such troubles are best left to Dorollas and his expedition. Now my sons shall guide you to Celondim, along the Ered Luin.

May your journey be swift and free of hardship!”

“May it be so, lord,” Penthronnil murmured, head bowed, and with that, they were off.


End file.
